


Ignite Your Bones.

by LovelyOne



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyOne/pseuds/LovelyOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jexxer's Prompt.<br/>"Post-series) Malcolm is an empty husk. The fight has left him. The inner fire has gone out. But buried deep in the ashes is a tiny ember with a flicker of life left in it. All it needs is a little special care to start the flame anew. Julius has always been the caring type. (Or if that’s too flowery-sounding for you, I’m just dying for an emotional post-series hurt/comfort fic where Malcolm falls into a depression, and Julius makes the bhaji go away)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jexxer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jexxer/gifts).



> Triggers; please read this first. 
> 
> If you have depression, have had it or share your life with someone suffering it then I'm sorry, you might need to give this a swerve. It feels like some kind of perverse, self congratulatory bollocks to put this up. As though I think I could write something well enough to cause upset.
> 
> I triggered me, is all. It doesn't take much.

Jexxer's Prompt.  
"Post-series) Malcolm is an empty husk. The fight has left him. The inner fire has gone out. But buried deep in the ashes is a tiny ember with a flicker of life left in it. All it needs is a little special care to start the flame anew. Julius has always been the caring type. (Or if that’s too flowery-sounding for you, I’m just dying for an emotional post-series hurt/comfort fic where Malcolm falls into a depression, and Julius makes the bhaji go away.)"

*

Oh what have I done?

I should never have left him there. 

I let my own fears and anxieties rule my heart. 

I truly believed that I was doing the right thing. 

Waiting for him outside the prison that day, having him in my arms for that brief, exquisite moment as he became overwhelmed with emotion, it made this old heart soar. It felt right. I was exactly where I needed to be. I was there for him. I felt like the strongest of super heroes. 

Then he moved away, accepting the blanket I had offered, wrapping it round his soaked form like a forcefield. Pushing himself back into the farthest corner of the backseat and clutching shakily for the seatbelt. I tried not to stare at him as he turned to the window and brushed his hand against his eyes. Barely enough time had passed for me to savour the feel of him against me and he had withdrawn. I felt bereft. 

The old self doubt crept in as the warmth receded and so despite all my previous, well thought out plans about looking after him, feeding him and generally doing what I secretly yearned to do, I instructed Hugo to drive us to his home rather than my own. I think I saw his shoulders droop as I spoke but he didn't turn away from the window and I was so afraid I'd imagined it. The blanket encompassed as much of him as he could cover, his long fingers just visible, grasping and releasing the edges fretfully. Rain water slid down his face from his sodden hair and the urge to gently wipe it away was like a whisper across my own skin. His gaze remained locked on the view beyond the glass at his side for the entire journey. I cursed my cowardice then. 

I loathe it now.

As we pulled up outside his house and he rummaged through his jacket pockets for the key I groped desperately for something to say. To comfort him? I would hope. To prolong the moment together? Most definitely. Either way all I could find in my considerable vocabulary was "Should you need anything...."

He had nodded, not meeting my eyes. Mumbled his thanks and all but ran from the vehicle, slamming the door. All that remained was the damp, crumpled blanket, hurriedly discarded. I watched him until his front door closed before stretching my hand out to the soft wool and dragging it towards me. I told Hugo to drive on and busied myself folding and refolding the square of woven fabric. Remembering how it enveloped him and wishing I had the courage to at least attempt the same. Fighting the urge to press it against my face and simply breathe. 

Foolish boy I hear my mind whisper at me in my father's grim tones. Soft, weak, foolish. 

I hate that voice as fiercely as I loved it's owner.

I should never have left him there.

*

I lasted three days. 

I lie.

It was two days. Two nights. Long slippery dark nights that were filled with guilt and the most terrifying nightmares of my life. By the time I could take no more I couldn't stop shaking with fear. I had to wait for Hugo to start his day because I knew if I even attempted to get behind a wheel in the state I was in I would crash before i reached the end of the driveway. 

He hadn't answered his phone once. My Malcolm. Whose phone had once never left his hand. Who seemed like the perfect candidate should a scientist require a guinea pig for surgically implanting the blasted thing directly into his brain. Oh why hadn't he answered. I lost count of the times I tried. He always answers. 

Hugo, bless the man, didn't question me. He took one look as he entered the front door to begin his work day. As I paced the hallway in my coat, shoes on, waiting. He simply told me he'd bring the car around.

The journey took ten times longer. It did. Logic be damned, it did.

I fought with my imagination at what I would find. I had a vicious argument with the dark, evil voice in my head that told me whatever I found was my own fault. Because I left him at his cold front door and drove away to my own warm house without him. 

I tried to tell myself he would be fine. 

Perhaps he had bought a new phone.

No. It had rung and rung. The answerphone message that kicked in was the one he'd had forever. The simple demand to "leave a fucking message and I'll get back to you when I've got the fucking time, okay?!" 

Perhaps it had been on silent.

It was always on silent. Set to vibrate so it didn't interrupt him mid bollocking. 

Perhaps he simply didn't want to talk to me.

I had lost count of the attempts but I know that the nonstop buzzing would drive Malcolm nuts. He would have picked up to tell me to fuck off if he didn't want to talk.

Oh god.

I found myself incapable of thinking anything beyond those two words as familiar hedges rolled into view.

My heart was going to burst through my chest, I just knew it.

If he- what if he- Oh God.

My driver asked if I was alright. I couldn't reply. I stared at the front door as I sat there.

Suddenly the enormity of the need for haste hit me and I lost a few seconds desperately scrabbling for the handle. Hugo leapt out and opened my door.

I knocked so hard I'm sure the bruises will never fade. I knocked and knocked. There was no bell, why wasn't there a bell? Surely everyone had a doorbell! I knocked as despair filled me. Silence on the other side. Knocked more. Knocked harder. Finally shouted his name.

Blessed Lord, movement. 

Glorious movement.

A tall, grey blur moving closer. Breath returned to me.

As the door opened relief hit me so hard I was sure I'd fall over. Then inexplicable rage, raw and red and dreadful caught me in it's grasp and I found myself shouting.

"Why haven't you picked up you bloody phone?!" 

He looked blankly at me and turned, far too slowly, to look at the table in the hallway. On it lay his phone. Red light blinking languidly. 

The tide receded.

I positioned myself so I could see his face. It was as grey as the jumper he had on. Truly, grey was the overall impression the man exuded. His eyes were slightly unfocused and looked positively bruised! I leaned closer to catch a whiff of alcohol. I was sure I would detect it.

My sense of smell suddenly seemed to return from some kind of holiday. Bleach. The house was choking me with the scent of bleach!

"Malcolm?" I struggled to frame the question in my mind, to force it through my teeth but my throat burned. "Bleach?"

"I was cleaning. I've been away. Everywhere was..." his voice trailed off and he looked at me mildly, confusion hinting around the edges of his features. 

I found myself lost for words. Like a detached soul I saw myself reach out and rub his arms. The only response from him was mild agitation, a hand scratching his temple, eyes darting to the side and shoulders lifting up around his ears.

"Julius? I can't, right now, I can't be having visitors just now. I've, I've a lot to do."

I shook my head so hard I felt my brain rattle. No. I was not leaving again. Christ. I tightened my grasp on his arms slightly, terrified.

"I. I want you to come home with me, Malcolm, alright? Alright my dear? We'll um...we'll finish with that later." The term of endearment slipped out without my permission and I froze, ice filling my veins as I stared at him.

If he registered it, however, he showed no sign. He didn't pull away, shout, mock me, none of the myriad of rejections I'd always envisioned if anything ever showed of my affections. He continued to scratch worriedly at his head.

"Home with you?" He asked me in a small voice. 

My self loathing returned.

"Yes. Yes I'd like that Malcolm. Please? I... I'd like your company." The desperation I felt made tears threaten. Please, oh please, i silently begged. Let's away from this horrible white box of a house, sterile, bleach coated monstrosity. I hated it, I decided then. 

"Company." He echoed. I gently pulled his hand away from where it had begun to tug at his hair and rubbed it between my own. Waiting for his answer. It felt like an eternity, watching him process it and come up with a reply.

"Just for now. It's...too bright in here Julius. It hurts my eyes."

"Okay Malcolm, just for now." I agreed softly. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah, okay."

*

I'm going home with Julius.

My head hurts. I can't seem to, to catch my thoughts. I think there are gaps where nothing happens for a while.

I know I got changed. After he left me at the door. I cried and then I got changed.

I remember going up and taking the wet clothes off. Putting dry ones on. Made sense. 

I remember the dry ones smelt musty.

The house smelt musty.

I don't really like my house. 

She picked it. She decorated it. I just kept it.

I remember it needed to be cleaned. So the smell would go.

I keep feeling scared. Dread coiling up through my stomach. I don't know why. Nothing is going to happen now. 

It's all happened already.

I'm going home with Julius now.

I wanted to. When he picked me up I wanted to. But he left. Why wouldn't he? I didn't ask him to take me home.

He rubbed my arms. Held my hand. It was nice. 

It's funny.

He looks quite worried. I wonder why.

I'll tell him not to.

 

His house is big. 

-overcompensating- trips through my head. That's not very nice.

It's warm inside. That's good. My house was cold.

It smelt musty.

Julius is speaking, pay attention.

He's. He's hugging me. He shouldn't do that. He's nice. I'm not nice. It's so nice, I'm going to have a bit of a cry I think.

I don't deserve this.

*


	2. Chapter 2

I am lost.

I hold onto him as he cries, he's silent throughout, shoulders shaking and hands grasping the back of my jumper. 

I fear I cried a little aswell when I heard him say it was nice but he didn't deserve it. Silly man.

I wish he would swear.

I'd give my right arm for a bit of creative metaphor and violence. Just anything really, any recogniseable 'Malcolm' behaviour would fill me with such relief. 

I stroke his back and cradle his head against my shoulder. I will carry this guilt with me to the grave.

Because the anger was there. At that bus stop. I saw it being hurled at the bus driver who didn't stop for him. I saw it directed at Hugo as he glared into the car without seeing me. I saw it in every bunched muscle as he marched towards the car, back straight, eyes vicious, ready to destroy. It was I that brought the rage to a halt. With a few words of care I broke through his armour. It wasn't deliberate. Nothing I have ever said has had such an effect. Once upon a time the sound of my voice would heighten his fury to levels where the air would become too thin for him to breathe effectively. 

For many years I have pondered the subject; what was Malcolm without his anger? I knew he used it as fuel for the fire required to do his job. I entertained the notion that if I were to quell it I might find in it's place a different kind of passion.

Well, the fire's out. 

This is what is left.

It's barely recognisable, this grey, empty shell. I took the fuel with kindness. He floundered without it and I left. 

I don't know what to do.

I whisper words of encouragement and yes, love, in his ear. I no longer care if he hates me for it. I'm so terribly afraid this can't be fixed.

His tears slowly stop and he lets go of me to put his arms around himself, looking at his feet in embarrassment. Apologizing. Oh Malcolm. 

I have to lean down despite us being of a height, he's so collapsed in on himself. I kiss his cheek and he lets me without complaint. I try to tell him he has nothing to apologise for but he just looks at me tiredly. 

I take him into my sitting room, push him gently onto the sofa and wrap the old brown throw I've had forever around him. I remove his shoes and put his feet up so he can cocoon himself in it's warmth. Because he's freezing and I can think of nothing to do but get him warm.

I light a fire in the hearth and get it crackling away as swiftly as I am able. When I turn back it is to find him asleep, furrowed brow remaining. I can't resist stroking it, trying to get it to ease and he moves into the touch, a small noise escaping the seal of his lips.

I am loathe to leave him but I feel the pull of the old familiar ritual that we English have in times of strife. I need a cup of tea. I need to make a cup of tea. To put the kettle on and load up a teapot. All the better to face the darkness of a black moment. It's busy work I suppose. Gives the hands something to do. 

I realise, as the pot stews, I can't do this alone. I'm simply not qualified. 

I need help.

*

He took me to a fucking Doctor. Claimed he was an old friend from school.

They definitely seemed like old friends. Grabbing at each other and booming greetings, slapping each other's backs. If I wasn't so tired it'd have pissed me off, all the, the posturing and big meaningless words.

I wish he'd let me stay on the couch. It was warm.

I can't remember what he said. Julius. He spoke to me, I know, before we got here. About his doctor friend. I just, I can't remember.

I agreed to come. I know I need help. Because I've felt this before. Not so bad, it's never seemed like such an effort to breathe before. The time slip thing though, that's not new. Been happening for years. Any time I couldn't fill with work. 

Weekends.

I hated weekends. 

The doctor spoke softly. Like I was a child. Like I might be broken.

Asked me.

Asked me if I'd made plans.

No.

I know what he's asking but I haven't. I told him to go fuck himself. Felt Julius shift in his seat like he wanted to say something. So I told Julius. I haven't! He patted my hand like an old maid. Looked all relieved.

The doctor asked other questions. Asked for numbers. High to low. It was upsetting. He told me to answer honestly but I didn't want to. I tried to leave and Julius asked for a moment to ourselves. Talked about how important it was. I know, I fucking know, alright! 

I know.

I got through it. The quack made notes, mentioned a referral. Gave me a prescription. Done. Out. 

I'm too fucking tired. Feels like I've run a marathon. Minus the shitting myself. Haven't done that. Score.

Julius said it'd be ok to sleep in the car since it would be a couple of hours until we got home. That made the dread come back. I scratched my head, couldn't think how to ask. He understood anyway. 

Clarified. 

His house.

I don't want to feel like this anymore. I will have to go home soon. Julius has been kind but it's not fair to put this on him. I just. 

Fuck.

I don't know how to do this. 

*

I've known Patrick for years, decades.

I called him for help and he invited us in the next day. I knew he was discreet and I took care to explain to Malcolm, knowing he'd be reluctant. Truthfully I was surprised how readily he agreed and I'm still not sure how much he took in. He gets this look. Like he's left the controls, he's on autopilot. It's dreadful. It's frightening. 

It's normal according to Patrick. Normal for depression anyway. 

He told me not to be at all surprised if Malcolm deferred to me for a while despite how out of character it might be. Letting someone else be in charge of decision making was a usual coping strategy. Not ideal in the long term but fine for now. Baby steps. 

When he was asked about planning I almost broke down myself. The way he looked at me. Like he was desperate for me to believe him. I hadn't realised how afraid I'd been of the answer being yes until he said no.

He became very fretful during the questions, he even began to swear again. I had to ask if we could have a moment. He was going to leave otherwise, I knew it before he started to stand. 

I managed to convince him to get through it. 

The fact that I am able to convince him of anything he doesn't want to do... 

He looks so tired. 

Patrick assures us both that antidepressants will help but warns us we might have to increase the dosage, it depends how he feels once they begin to take effect. Which takes about two weeks. 

Malc's face falls at this. I understand. Two weeks must feel like forever.

I try to convey encouragement with a quick squeeze of his arm, knowing I am pushing my luck with the physical contact here in this semi public area. 

He does shrug away but flashes a look of apology immediately following the action, which surprises me. 

I resist the urge to support him back to the car, despite the fact that he looks set to collapse with exhaustion. 

He falls asleep once he realises I'm taking him back to my house, rather than his own. 

I'm not entirely certain i will ever be confortable with the idea of returning him to his house.

The smell of bleach, you see.


	3. Chapter 3

It will be Christmas in twelve days.

I am not sure what the best course of action is here. I don't usually do much over the holiday season, I visit my family on Boxing day rather than Christmas day as is our tradition. I tend to spend the day itself ensconced in my living room with a selection of food and drink and a good book. Listen to the Queens Speech. Watch Doctor Who, early night. All very pleasant, if a little lonely. Then a lovely drive into the country to exchange gifts and awkward conversation over turkey before heading home again. 

This year will have to be slightly different. 

I doubt Malcolm will mind very much how we spend Christmas day as he's become very fond of burying himself in the throw on the sofa in front of the fire as he did the first day. He sleeps a lot at the moment. I must remember to ask Patrick about that. I hope it's just his exhausted body trying to reclaim some much needed energy. 

I really don't think I can inflict my family on him while he's so vulnerable. They're well meaning but extremely nosey creatures by nature. My mother will love him, I already know this. She has always had a soft spot for strays, and is a compulsive feeder. His appearance, though often malnourished, has never screamed 'take care of me!' quite so loudly as it does at present and she would find it impossible to resist. 

My sister knows who he is, is fanatically religious and so will wax poetic about reaping what one sows and God's judgement being absolute. She will believe she is being subtle. She is never so. She'll also make mention of the evil that is my sexuality. I've grown accustomed to tuning out her preaching but Malcolm will despise her for it. I may not have the testicular fortitude to speak with him about his preferences but I've observed enough to know he's not remotely phased by homosexuality. 

Her husband is a raging alcoholic and something in the way Malcolm never indulges leads me to believe he's had experience with the issue. Whether as the drinker remains unclear. My nephew is obsessed with his video games and, I think, sea fishing, judging by how often he mentions cod. He's fourteen. 

My father died several years ago. I loved him dearly but the man was a complete arse. He was exactly the type of Upper Class that puts Malcolm's back up. 

I will take him to Mother when the others are away. That will appease her when I telephone. 

I hope.

*

It's Christmas in eleven days.

Julius keeps almost mentioning it. 

I keep meaning to say I'll go home so he can visit his family in peace. 

Usually I'd have ten lies lined up and ready to go. Family of my own. A friend coming to stay. The fucking cactus needs watering, I don't know. Something.

It's just. 

Ugh.

I don't want to go home, do I. 

Like a fucking wee jessie, I'm scared. I'm scared of being on my own. Of time just, just slipping away like it does. Of forgetting what fucking day it is. Every day in that house is the same as the one before it. Silent and white. Without the job to break it up.

Julius will tell me to leave soon. I'll go then.

He thinks I'm his friend. Fucking funny. What a shitty friend I'd make. 

Ask Jamie.

 

Finally he broaches the subject. 

He looks so apologetic as he sits next to me on what I've decided is the nicest fucking couch in the world. Fusses with the blanket near my feet. I've sat up. I'm prepared. 

I am.

He starts by saying he's terribly sorry and I lose it. 

"Oh just fucking say it Julius, for fuck sake!" I didn't mean to do that. My voice is hoarse and I realise it's because I haven't been using it all that much. It doesn't sound as powerful as I need it to. 

I need to sound strong. I can cope with this. It doesn't hurt. I am ready. My hands clench into fists under the blanket and I try to summon my rage. 

What surges up is similar. Except the waves of red overwhelm me instead of him. I can't push the anger outwards. It's. It's fucking stuck in my chest. I can't breathe.

I can't breathe. 

*

Oh shit!

He's having an anxiety attack. He cannot hear me. It's horrifying. I don't know what to do! He's shoving his way out of the blanket, I hear his knees hitting the floor.

Harriet.

My housekeeper. I forgot she was here. She's forcing him up onto the couch, pushing a bag over his nose and mouth and telling him to just breathe. Just breathe.

She's taking deep, exaggerated breaths that I find I'm copying despite myself but it's working. He's calming down. 

He starts to sob noisily into his hands once he's pushed the bag away and I find I can move again as I pull him into my arms. I rock him slowly as though I'm calming a distressed infant and he clings to me, still trying to cover his face. Ah, it's Harriet. He's trying to hide it from her even though she's just swooped to the rescue.

He likes Harriet. Hasn't spoken to her beyond brief greetings on her work days and embarrassed apologies if he believes he's in her way. But his eyes go soft, like they would for Samantha, his PA.

Harriet has been my housekeeper three days a week since I removed myself from the country house and came to live here. She's just over sixty and is the kindest human on earth. 

She understands what is going on and leaves, to put the kettle on and get some of those biscuits I like, she claims. To give him his dignity, I hear her not say.

He's babbling apologies into my shirt between hitched breaths and curses. 

I have no idea what just happened.

*

What the fuck just happened!

Now I can't even get angry properly?

Shit.

He wants to know what's going on. He's too nice, I'm going to destroy him and I can't stop it.

Fucking selfish cunt. That's what I am.

*

I need to understand what is going on in his head. 

Why such an explosive reaction to the subject of Christmas? I don't know enough about him, I can't even guess. It's so frustrating! 

He's pulled away again. This time the blanket is forgotten and it's just his long thin limbs pulled up and bracketing him while he huddles into the corner. The look on his face is full of hate but it isn't directed at me.

Oh.

I am a fool.

Christmas. 

He thinks I'm turfing him out! So I can celebrate. Of course.

I know he doesn't want to go home, I discovered that by myself. He obviously thought I was going to suggest it. Poor, poor man. How long has he been going over that in his head? Well, if I'm right then that is easily rectified.

I'm quite finished watching him mentally attack himself, for it's clear that is what he's doing.

I summon my strength and haul him bodily into my lap. He weighs next to nothing, it's a little ridiculous. As is the face he pulls. Eyes still red from crying go huge in his face and he lets out a surprised squawk. 

I hope Harriet takes her time with the tea. This would be awkward.

Still. It's important.

One hand almost encircles both his wrists as i hold them against my chest. The other hand clasps his jaw so I can look him in the eye. He's so tense I fear I might hear the sound of twigs snapping.

"Now listen to me carefully Malcolm Tucker." I say sternly, before he can retreat. He doesn't move. " You will go home when you tell me you want to" he struggles briefly, clearly hearing something different in my words to my actual meaning. I hold tight. "Listen!" I urge him.

"You are staying here. With me. Until you say otherwise. Right? Because I want you to, because I enjoy your company and because you want to aswell. So unless you tell me otherwise right now." I tighten my grip on his jaw as he begins to tremble, " then here is where you currently live, here is home."

He goes lax in my grip and his forehead meets my shoulder with a soft thud. His arms are still between his chest and mine but he makes no effort to move them. I hear his breath in my ear and suddenly realise he is straddling me. 

Now is not the time for inappropriate thoughts, I scold myself. 

I stroke my hands through his grey hair, it's beginning to curl, I note absently. 

He falls asleep in that position and I am loathe to move him.

Harriet arrives with the tea, raises an eyebrow at my sheepish expression, grins and leaves.

Her Christmas bonus this year is going to be ridiculous.

I let myself drift off to the feel of Malcolm Tucker's heart beating against my own chest.


End file.
